


Sinking in my sea

by forthegenuine



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Compliant, F/M, Fix-It, Theon Greyjoy Lives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2020-04-06 05:15:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19055959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forthegenuine/pseuds/forthegenuine
Summary: Theon thought he was for death.And though the last image he would remember was the frozen world tilted on its axis as he lay on his side with his own spear in his abdomen, his last vision was of Sansa Stark’s blue ocean eyes.He sank into them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I accidentally started shipping Theon and Sansa, and this just sort of happened: a Season 8 where Theon lives. Title is from "Wolves Without Teeth" by Of Monsters and Men because why not. 
> 
> Unbeta'd so all mistakes are mine.

i.

 

Theon thought he was for death.

And though the last image he would remember was the frozen world tilted on its axis as he lay on his side with his own spear in his abdomen, his last vision was of Sansa Stark’s blue ocean eyes. 

He sank into them.

 

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Sansa and Tyrion were the last of the living to leave the crypts. They executed their duties as Lady of Winterfell and Hand of the Queen to see the others out safely. She longed to breathe air that wasn’t tainted with death and decay, but a part of her also feared what should find once she resurfaced. A small part of her corrected, rather, whom she _wouldn’t_ find.

Her mind was on her family. A voice inside her head chanted their names again and again, offering them up as prayers to the old gods that they would allow her to see them once more.

_Arya, Jon, Bran. Arya, Jon, Bran. Arya, Jon, Bran…_

_Theon…_

But in the dim torchlight, the grateful eyes of her surviving people rooted her to the ground, at least until every last one of them was as safe as she can guarantee.

“Those are the last of the survivors, my lady,” said Tyrion, nodding at the group of women accompanied by Varys and Missandei. He gave the crypts one final sweeping glance, as if to render it in his memory, before looking up at her. “Save for us.”

Something must have flashed upon her face, for Tyrion reached up and held one of her gloved hands in his, as he had done only an hour ago. She looked into his eyes with gratitude. They steadied each other up the dreadful hallway until they emerged from the place of horror.

As her eyes adjusted to the night above ground, a blur of dark brown rushed at her and Sansa felt her sister’s arms wrap around her middle. She rested a cheek on Arya’s forehead, slick with sweat, blood, and grime, but she did not mind. She watched as Jon and Tyrion shook hands.

“Bran?” Sansa asked. She released a choking sob when she felt Arya nod her head. Her lithe body convulsed with a small tremor in her arms, so she held her younger sister tighter. 

A moment after, they switched partners like a macabre dance among all the destruction, and Sansa hugged Jon too. Tyrion slipped away after nodding his head at her and her reunited family. Sansa would ask about the details of their victory later, but for now, another name lingered at the tip of her tongue.

“Theon?” she found herself asking, releasing Jon to regard them both.

Arya and Jon traded a look, and it was Arya who drew the shorter straw. “He’s hurt, but he’s alive.” There was mercy in her withholding the ‘barely’ from the end of her sentence.

Sansa felt tears spring to her eyes, but she was nothing if not well-trained in keeping them from falling. She could not name what compelled her toward the Goodswood where she knew he would still be. Her ridiculous heart sang with hope as she passed familiar faces, the surviving members of their army of the living. She saw Jaime Lannister, his golden hand several shades dimmer under the taint of blood, found his brother, who already had a celebratory drink in his hand. Brienne and Podrick wordlessly cleaned their weapons next to them. She moved past little Sam enfolded between his parents. And the wildling Tormund Giantsbane, whom Sansa had never seen looking so solemn, sat in silence by a fire, his sword limp at his side. Somewhere in the darkness, she heard unfamiliar chirps and clicks that were unmistakably dragon.

She surged forward until she stood at the edge of the Godswood. Her eyes took in the remnants of the battle––bodies of the Ironborn and white walkers alike strewn in a broken circumference around the weirwood heart tree, where Bran was sat under.

Her gaze fell on Theon last, the Maester already tending to the wound at the sorry end of the spear. A part of her held back, delaying the tidings if they were indeed of permanent doom. She only wished for him to survive long enough to give him her thanks; the greedy part of her wished he would live so she might give words to other things that remained unspoken.

Her knees gave way and she dropped to the snow next to the Maester, as she heard Arya and Jon’s footsteps stop just a few feet behind the pair of them. The Maester spoke to her then, but she could hardly hear his words above the sound of her heart thumping in her ears. He mentioned something about going to prepare an infirmary for Lord Greyjoy. Sansa felt herself nod.

She cast her eyes down at him, a watery sheen covering her world.

Yesterday, when she saw him again for the first time in nearly two years, he looked unrecognisable from the wretched boy who risked his life to liberate her from Ramsey Bolton. He looked the very image of a knight he once boasted of becoming when he was a youth, standing tall and strapping in his armour. _If you’ll have me_ , he had said, pledging his life to her once again in earnest. Words failed her then at such a vow. Sansa didn’t care who saw her embrace Theon Greyjoy with such familiarity, for she had only ever known few men whom she would consider gentle, and Theon would be at the top of that list.

But _oh_ to gather him into her arms once more. Feeling helpless as a child, she took one of Theon’s hands––fearing she might cause more harm if she did anything more––and let the tears she kept at bay quietly fall like an early winter snow.

Bran approached, snow crunching beneath his chair’s wheels. His face looked serene, but not unaffected by the night’s events. It was softer than she had seen in recent memory, a glimmer of the boy he once was. Perhaps the defeat of the Night King lifted something in him as well. She wanted to launch herself and wrap her arms around him, but could not seem to relinquish her grasp of Theon then.

Bran was the first to break the silence. “He fought bravely and strongly––every bit of him a worthy, high lord.”

Behind her, Jon and Arya exchanged glances, for their brother’s words held no meaning to them. But Sansa could still hear their father’s promise to her a long lifetime ago, to have her matched with someone she had grown to believe did not exist.

She held Theon’s hand until they were ready to move him to his chamber.


	2. Chapter 2

ii.

 

He felt her presence before he had the strength to open his eyes.

It came as a shock to find himself in the watery halls of the Drowned God, for surely, she would not be sent to the same place where his soul was destined to be banished. He must have done something right in the end. His next thought was that it might not be too terrible: a life, then an afterlife, bound to the Starks.

The last thing he remembered before the darkness swallowed him again was the faint smell of burning wood and flesh.

  
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Lady Sansa seemed to be everywhere in the days following the long night. She organised the funeral to honour their fallen. She visited the wounded and the displaced to make sure they wanted for nothing that was within her power to provide. She walked the grounds, inspecting the restoration of Winterfell. She wrote to other kingdoms, even as far as Dorne, asking for help with their depleted provisions. Though dark circles appeared under her eyes and her servants tutted every time she could not be persuaded to eat a full meal, the lady never seemed to rest.

No one asked why Lady Sansa could be found sitting by Theon Greyjoy’s bedside at the beginning and at the end of each of her busy days. She was spared even from furtive whispers behind covered mouths, not only because she was beloved, but also because anyone who saw the lady with her father's ward was moved to see someone holding on to hope rather than mourning a loss.

The only word that passed her lips on the subject was her wish that the Maester send for her immediately if there were any changes, no matter the hour. Maester Wolkan, whose formal studies in the Citadel did not include the subtleties of internal house politics, did not need to be told how important his patient was to the Lady of Winterfell.

It was Tormund who suggested the feast, and like a hive mind, the other Free Folk formed a consensus around his idea, which Queen Daenerys granted. Sansa, who did receive an informal education on internal house politics, avoided an official edict from Her Grace and competently made the necessary arrangements.

She had to hand it to Daenerys. After she named Gendry Baratheon the new Lord of Storm’s End, the Great Hall came to life with mirth and high spirits, such as it had not seen in recent memory, nor did anyone present think its walls would ever echo with such sounds again. Sansa almost forgot herself for a few moments, too, and laughed along with the survivors who wanted nothing but to drink, eat, and fuck as heroically as they’d fought.

But when she saw the look pass between Jon and his queen, she knew she did not belong in the thick of the celebration. Even Arya, the hero of Winterfell herself, was no where to be seen.

Sansa’s observation alighted on an old acquaintance, who looked about as pleased to be there as she did. So she carried her drink to sit across from Sandor Clegane. She found that he had not changed much since she saw him last, while he thought the contrary of her.

“Heard you were broken in,” he insinuated. “Heard you were broken in rough.” He emphasised the last word, as if she needed a reminder.

“And he got what he deserved. I gave it to him.”

“How?”

“Hounds.”

He chuckled.

She smiled, too, in spite of herself, knowing he would find amusement in her choice of the word.

His face turned serious then and he said, almost wistfully, using a name she had not gone by in a long time, another name for another girl. “You’ve changed, Little Bird.” He took a swig from his mug. He added with just an edge of sadness, or perhaps pity, in his voice, “None of it would have happened if you'd left King's Landing with me. No Littlefinger, no Ramsay. None of it.”

Sansa let silence fall between them for a moment as she considered him. It was not difficult to recall the countless nights she had cried herself to sleep, with the childish intention that she might melt and disappear into oblivion, or at the very least, dissolve the memories of what had happened to her. Her insides boiled hot tears for the men who conspired to rob her of her innocence, wishing dearly that she never put her trust in Littlefinger, never been married off to Ramsay. But now, she knew better than to wish for such things. For one, the picture of green eyes the colour of the water in Blackwater Bay when the winds were calm conjured itself in her mind.

She reached across the table and covered Sandor’s large hand with hers. “Without Littlefinger and Ramsay, and the rest, I would have stayed a Little Bird all my life,” she proclaimed defiantly. She stood, suddenly tiring of the evening. She left him to nurse his drink and her words.

Sansa wound her way through the hall, stepping around and over carousers. She had been to enough feasts to know where the revels of the night would lead. She would be there in the morning to clean up.

She stole deeper into the belly of the keep, where stone walls muffled the sounds of songs and drunkenness. She walked through the quiet corridor of the chambers, her footsteps and the rustle of her skirts the only other sounds. She peered into Theon’s room and stepped inside.

Sansa stood at the foot of the bed, gripping its sturdy wooden frame for stability, to watch the slow but steady rise and fall of his chest, before letting out her a quavered breath of her own. She started to take her usual place in the chair by the side of the bed, but stopped herself. Raising herself on the tips of her toes, she took a seat next to him on the bed, careful not to disturb even a hair on the furs that blanketed his body.

And, feeling half as brave as him, she reached out and brushed away the curl of hair that had fallen on Theon’s forehead. She let her hand linger a bit longer, fingertips skimming the side of his face, his beard course under them, before folding her hands to rest on her lap, waiting for her quickened heartbeat to subside.

She heard the door creak.

“Where’ve you been?” Sansa asked, without turning her head.

“Nowhere special,” Arya dismissed, a little too quickly, so Sansa decided not to pursue it. She moved into the room to stand next to Sansa. They stayed immobile for some moments before Arya spoke again. “Is he going to be all right?”

Sansa tried to swallow the knot caged in her throat. She found it difficult to keep the heaviness from her voice. “I don’t know.”

Arya put an arm around her shoulder. Sansa leaned into her and lifted a hand to grasp her sister’s. Outside, embers from the funeral pyres glowed into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Not to fret, there’s a happy ending!)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks very much to everyone who's read, kudosed, commented, and subscribed. I also appreciate your patience with my updates. Turns out summer break hasn't been able to afford me much time to write, but I'll do my best!!
> 
> (woo hoo to Sophie and Alfie's Emmy nominations 🎉)

iii.

 

He was ready to descend into the welcoming halls of the Drowned God. And yet something tethered him to the spot so that he could not move. It radiated warmth when all around it settled an unforgiving frost.

When she called his name, he knew instantly she would lead him back.

  
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_Theon_.

Everything was murky through heavy eyelids. But once he wrested himself to wakefulness and blinked his way back to life, he knew the face that came into his view. It was the same one that kept him company through the darkness.

She had always been there, he realised, from the carefree days of his reckless youth to the sunless trench when he was lost even to himself. Without his control, his thoughts fell on her from time to time after their paths diverged in the wolfswood. He supposed it was because he was irrevocably tied to the Starks for the things he had done, but when he saw her again in his return to Winterfell—her standing there, regal and beautiful—he knew something of what Tyrion and Yara must have felt when they pledged themselves to Daenerys. And when Sansa drew him into her embrace, he did not care if he were struck down at that moment for treason.

Her eyes shone and a smallest smile broke on her face. He tried to reach for her but something held him. When his vision let him see past Sansa's blue eyes, he saw her gloved fingers curled around his hand. His mouth, already dry, became impossibly more so. And his heart, which he thought had been stilled forever, thumped beneath his chest without his knowing why, in double time.

She seemed to speak to someone over her shoulder, a plea, a call for a Maester. She turned her head back toward him once more. “Theon? Can you hear me?” There was a mixture of relief, worry, and—something else he could not quite place—in her voice. Any pondering on that unnamed thing was halted when a hand went up to cup his cheek, and Theon never wished for winter to pass as quickly as he did at that moment, if only to feel her bare skin on his.

“Sans—" he rasped, his voice rough from days of disuse.

“Yes, it’s me.” He could have drowned in her watery smile.

A flash of memory flooded him then, and he remembered. “Bran?” he asked.

“Shhh…” she soothed. “He’s alive. You saved him. And Arya saved all of us.”

“Arya,” he whispered to himself in disbelief, a faint curve turning up the corner of his chapped lips.

“I know. I can hardly believe it either.” There was a quiver in her voice, as tears and laughter fought their way up. She held his hand and cheek, her thumb gliding just on the margin of his bottom lip, for a few moments more.

“Lady Sansa?” A serving girl appeared at the door, followed immediately by the Maesters Wolkan and Samwell Tarley, who rushed to the patient’s side. Sansa drew back, stepping aside to let him be tended to, while the girl whispered in her ear. She straightened her spine, swiping at her eyes with her fingers, and composed herself.

Theon watched her, transfixed by her transformation, all but ignored Wolkan and Sam’s questions and prodding. She let out an almost inaudible sigh, and smoothed wrinkles from her impeccable skirts. He could see a well-concealed burden weighing on her.

She caught his curious eye, and explained, “There’s a council meeting… but I’ll be back to see you.”

Theon gave her a small nod, and his eyes trailed after her as she left.

  
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Under normal circumstances, she would never be tardy, especially not for a council meeting. But the morning did not unfold under normal circumstances.

Sansa made her way to the council chamber, though her mind she left several hundred paces behind. Her quick steps echoed against granite, racing toward her destination so that she might return to Theon sooner.

She braced herself for the meeting with everyone, now that the gaiety of last night’s revels had subsided. At the end of the corridor, she stopped in her tracks, surprised to find Arya waiting outside the closed door.

Arya looked at her expectantly, eyes wide. “Theon?”

Sansa had almost forgotten how quickly word got around in Winterfell, and the very utterance of his name made her want to break down in a pool of emotions. She schooled her countenance, however, and so merely nodded her head.

Arya offered her a small smile. It lifted something in Sansa’s chest, and she returned the smile with sisterly affection, before they both erased all expressions from each of their faces.

They walked in together, standing across the table from Daenerys, just as Grey Worm and Jon reported their armies were depleted by half.

The Queen met Sansa’s eye, but said nothing.

“… And the Golden Company has arrived in King's Landing, courtesy of the Greyjoy fleet,” Varys reported. Sansa’s ears burned. “The balance has grown distressingly even.”

“We will hit her hard,” Daenerys vowed. “We will rip her out root and stem.”

But Tyrion reminded her gently, yet sternly. “The objective here is to remove Cersei without destroying King's Landing.”

Following a short silence, Varys added, “Thankfully, she's losing allies by the day. Yara Greyjoy has retaken the Iron Islands in her queen's name…”

Sansa managed not to react to Theon’s sister’s name, and listened as Tyrion and Jon laid out a plan to wait Cercei out in an embargo. Sansa read the urgency and haste in the Queen’s eyes, and could not help imagine if the circumstances were that Theon was not as gravely injured as he was, or worse. The latter, she did not dwell on, but if the former, Sansa surmised that he would have been ordered to fight in the next battle so soon following the long night. A fire kindled inside her, her mind half on this hypothetical version of events and the other half on her people, as she spoke. “The men we have left are exhausted. Many of them are wounded. They'll fight better if they have time to rest and recuperate.”

“How long do you suggest?” Daenerys asked, her irritation growing.

“I can't say for certain. Not without talking to the officers.”

“I came north to fight alongside you, at great cost to my armies and myself. Now that the time has come to reciprocate, you want to postpone.” There was a bitterness in that last word.

“It's not just our people. It's yours,” Sansa volleyed. She felt the blood rise in her, and found it difficult to restrain herself. “You want to throw them into a war they're not ready to fight?”

“The longer I leave my enemies alone, the stronger they become.”

Jon interrupted. “The Northern forces will honour their promises and their allegiance to the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.” He looked at Sansa severely as he spoke, and it made her feel as though she were being scolded for stealing food from the kitchens. When he was done, he turned to Daenerys and pledged fiercely, “What you command, we will obey.”

Sansa could do nothing but gape at her very flesh and blood. Next to her, she caught a sideways glance from Arya. They knew what they had to do.

After everyone dispersed, she went to stand next to Bran, who remained silent and pensive. Arya stepped in front of Jon to stop him from leaving.

“We need a word.”

  
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Theon caught the sound muffled voices outside his chamber door.

Jon, he recognised. Of course, he knew her voice—Sansa. There was an exchange between the two of then. Then, more quietly, Arya added her voice to the assembly.

He could tell they were speaking in hushed but heated tones.

Finally, Bran spoke. And afterwards, silence fell on the other side of the door.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this update finds you well, readers. Thanks so much for your patience and support, whether it's by reading, kudosing, commenting on, bookmarking, or subscribing to this story. I'm so grateful for this little ship and all the wonderful people in it. Here's a nice, long chapter with some Theonsa flirting!

iv.

 

He woke to an unfamiliar sensation––no, not unfamiliar––but rather a sensation he had not felt in what seemed like many years.

The first thing he saw was her fiery red hair, styled the way her mother used to wear hers. He drew in a slow breath, his eyes adjusting to the sight of her, took in the fact that she was sitting by his bedside again, as if he were someone who mattered. He dared not think on it.

He noticed her looking down at something. Still blinking the sleep from his own eyes, his eyes followed hers and stopped where he saw she held his right hand––what was left of it––in both of hers. Her hands were ungloved, skin to skin, surrounding his with comforting warmth. He could not trust the sensation but his eyes confirmed her thumb was indeed drawing small circles on his skin.

Through his lashes, he studied her face as she regarded his hand, and he found it did not contain repulsion or even pity––he knew those looks all too well by then. He was unable to read the expression on her face, but he was keenly aware of the strange absence of the compulsion to withdraw his hand or conceal them behind leather gloves.

She must have felt his eyes on her, for she raised her head and met his gaze. She did not pull back or shy away from being caught.

Neither of them said anything. Neither of them paid attention to the faint sounds of men shouting or iron clanking in the world outside. Only the gentle crackling of the fire in the hearth marked the passage of time in his chamber.

The Maesters told him he should stay off his feet for several more days, perhaps weeks, but at that moment, Theon felt like he could soar above the Storm God’s cloudy hall in the sky.

 

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He must have fallen asleep again, but when he opened his eyes this time, he did not feel the ponderous weight of exhaustion that loomed over him each time he woke up before. He didn’t think it possible, but he was beginning to feel more like himself again.

And, adding to the growing list of impossible things, there she was once more. Her brows were furrowed in concentration, her hands occupied with something––no longer joined with his––but resting on his bed nonetheless. He almost felt guilty for interrupting.

“Sansa,” he murmured.

She looked up, her face easing into a small smile. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” he assured. And he meant it. “What are you working on?”

“Nothing,” she answered, looking down at her handiwork as if just realising what she was holding. “Just practising my needlework.” She folded her hands over the piece of cloth, before explaining, “It’s been a while, but it takes my mind off things.”

“You’ve always been very talented.”

The sides of her mouth twisted up, incredulous, yet there was a hint of laughter when she disputed him. “I think, more than once, you said to me when we were young, that you never took interest in such ‘frivolous’ things.” She was teasing him, he found.

He dug up memories of a younger version of him teasing a younger version of Sansa. And somehow, it was a former Theon who responded, “Perhaps it was because I hadn’t learned to appreciate true beauty back then.” He fought to keep himself from staring at her as he said it. He noticed the apples of her cheeks turning pink. “May I see it?” he asked, his eyes indicating the cloth hidden beneath her hands.

She straightened her back, and with a small tilt of her chin, answered in an air as though she were turning down an offer of lemon cakes. “No, thank you.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” she faltered, her eyes darting briefly to the side before returning to his. Her tone reminded him of the little girl who play-acted at knights and princesses. “… I am the Lady of Winterfell,” Sansa finished, as if she held dominion over the textile arts. Though her words sounded imperious, the quirk of a smile never left her lips.

“Of course, my lady. But it might help to distract from the pain.” He made a show to move his blankets and furs, feigning his intention to reveal his bandages to her. “I’ve got a war wound, you know. Want to see?”

Sansa raised her hands to settle him. “All right, fine!” she exclaimed, a laugh trailing behind her words. His heart might have skipped a beat, but it might have been a result of the small physical exertion. (He doubted it.) “You’ll hurt yourself,” she chided. As soon as she was satisfied that he would not budge, she gathered up the cloth and pressed it into his hand. “Just––I couldn’t find the right colours, and… I was bored. It’s silly anyway…” She looked like she was suppressing the urge to snatch it away from his grasp.

Theon opened his palm and unravelled the small square of cloth. In the center of it, he saw the dark outline of the familiar direwolf. That was not all. It intersected another motif, one made of delicate gold thread forming the shape of a kraken. The design of the two creatures melded together so perfectly, he could not discern which of the patterns was laid down first. It was as if they existed in perfect harmony on the piece of linen.

He released a breath. “It’s… fine work… Lady Sansa,” he finally managed to whisper, the teasing wrung out from his voice.

“You think so?”

He could only nod for he was robbed of words.

“Thank you,” she replied softly.

They let the silence stretch out between them––not uncomfortably––for several long moments, neither of them seeming to know what to say next.

But it was Theon who spoke again first, saving her from discomposure. He cleared his throat. “What sort of things are you trying to keep your mind off of?” he inquired, changing the subject entirely. “Maybe I can help?”

She nodded gratefully, seeming to consider his offer. It took her some moments to find the words but she began, “What if I know something?” He remained silent, urging her to continue. “A secret that I am sworn to keep––but it’s more than just a secret. It could be valuable information.” Her blue eyes bore into his. “What do you think I should do?”

“If… it’s as valuable as you say it is,” Theon started slowly, choosing his response with great thought and care. “Give it to someone who could do the most good with it.”

 

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“My lady.” They both looked up at the voice and found Tyrion standing at the mouth of the room’s open door. He went on with apology, “I’m sorry to disturb you, but I wanted to bid you a proper farewell.” He moved inside the room as soon as he was not turned away. “Unlike the last time we parted ways. I’m not quite certain when we’ll see each other again.”

Although she’d spent what she thought were her final minutes on earth next to the man, she was unsure of where the battle lines were drawn and, more importantly, where he stood in relation to them. Sansa waited to see where this was going.

“You know,” Tyrion cocked his head at the room’s occupants, a tiny glint of suggestion in his eyes. “As your husband, I should perhaps be jealous of the way you were looking at the young Lord Greyjoy when I walked in.”

“ _Estranged_ husband,” she corrected, rising to the bait, the slightest corner of her mouth upturned. “And Theon is older than me.”

Theon, not knowing how to respond, remained silent during their exchange and tried not to think about what the other two were alluding to.

“Fair enough, Lady Sansa.” Tyrion smiled and bowed his head slightly at her parry. He turned to Theon genially, no doubt acknowledging the latter’s heroism. “I wish you a speedy recovery, Lord Theon.”

He inclined his head. “Not a lord… but I thank you.”

Sansa, ever politely, excused herself from Theon promising to return that evening, and he nodded at her, his hand absently stroking the piece of cloth between his fingers.

She glanced at Tyrion, extending a silent invitation to follow. She rose from her chair and fetched her furs, which she’d left on the chair by the door. She led the way out of the chamber, as she heard Tyrion take his leave of Theon.

She moved out of doors to the battlements of the tower overlooking Winterfell. She stood for a moment, closed her eyes and tilted her head up to the heavens, letting the cold air fill her lungs. She felt shadows pass overhead and when she opened her eyes, she saw Daenerys’s two dragons, dancing in the sky. They were almost beautiful.

Tyrion, stood behind her, having caught up with her long strides some moments ago, and prompted, “My lady?”

She would have been content to have the conversation with him in that manner, her eyes fixed upward, mesmerised by the winged creatures. Eventually, he asked Sansa to look at him, though the eye contact did not help them resolve their differences.

“I don't want Jon to go down there,” she finally confided. “The men in my family don't do well in the capital.”

“No, but as your brother once told me, he's not a Stark.”

Sansa sighed. For once, she agreed with him. She turned away from him once more, as if she could better guard the truth if she weren’t looking directly at him.

“Are you all right?” He took her silence as his chance to deliver one final appeal. “Her people love her, you've seen that. You've seen how they fight for her. She wants to make the world a better place. I _believe_ in her.” Without waiting for a response, he turned to leave.

A part of Sansa envied his complete faith in another person, even if she felt it was heavily misguided. Still. While she may not believe in Daenerys Stormborn, she knew the man who was never her true husband, and all the good he might do. If armed with the truth.

“Tyrion,” she called at his retreating back. Her voice might have been lost underneath the marching boots of the Unsullied and Dothraki armies below them, but he turned yet around and faced her. She steeled herself with resolve, recalling Theon’s advice. “What if there's someone else? Someone better?”

 

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“I hope I’m not disturbing.”

Theon wrenched himself from his reverie, and shifted his gaze from the window’s frosted glass to the source of the voice. A servant wheeled Bran, his lap laden with furs, on his chair into the room and deposited him next to the bed. He heard the young man murmur his gratitude to the servant.

“No, of course not.” He attempted to sit up straighter. “Lord Bran,” he greeted.

“I’m not a lord,” reminded Bran, holding up a hand to stop Theon from his efforts.

Theon bowed his head thankfully at him. “Neither am I, and I can’t seem to shake the title either,” he confessed wryly. A ghost of a smile appeared on Bran’s face. Theon pursed his lips and looked at the square of cloth in his hand. When he continued, his voice was heavier than it was a moment before. “Thank you for what you said to me.” He raised his eyes to meet Bran’s. “In the Godswood.”

“It’s the truth,” said Bran decisively. Bran’s words landed on Theon again like soft blow and he clasped Sansa’s gift a little tighter in his palm. Bran spoke again. “I was by the library this morning, and it looked a bit unused so I brought you some books to keep you company.”

Theon had not noticed the pile of books on Bran’s lap beneath the assembly of furs, until the servant heaped them––histories and biographies, by their appearance––on to the bed. He picked up a rather intimidating-looking tome and perused the cover. “I used to hate my studies,” he reminisced, a low chuckle escaping as he set the book back down. “I rather’d been outdoors with my longbow.”

A real smile, though almost imperceptible, broke on Bran’s face. “I can relate to that.” He nodded to the servant, who proceeded to wheel him out the chamber, turning the chair around in the small space.

“I’ll get started on these,” said Theon, picking up a smaller volume. He began flipping through its pages, which looked to be a work literature. He remembered his manners and called after the other man. “Thank you, Bran.”

Without turning his head, Bran informed him, his voice carrying halfway from the hallway, “That one’s her favourite.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and feedback are immensely appreciated!!
> 
> I'm @ forthegenuine on tumblr and in need of more theonsa friends, and am not above shameless promotion. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! Cheers x


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